


First Valentine's

by Davechicken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-22 09:20:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22713745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Does what it says on the tin. Fluff.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 93





	First Valentine's

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lisalicious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisalicious/gifts).



It’s a… Human thing. Which is just like all their other things: somewhere between blindingly beautiful and utterly exploitative. Taken to both extremes, sometimes at the same time. Deep, meaningful connections, and overly-priced consumerism. And it’s nominally a _Saint’s_ day (though about as holy as bloody Christmas or Easter these days) so it shouldn’t be anything he pays attention to except when it could be corrupted, exploited, or otherwise--

No. He doesn’t work for Hell any more (and there were plenty of arguments to say he never really _did_ ). So although he may have delighted in the high-stakes, over-flowing emotions and possibilities for mischief (lost cards, mistaken senders, unequal affections)... 

Yeah. He hadn’t got the best memories of the day. And he may - possibly - at times… have acted out a little to spoil it for others because…

You know.

Bitter, lonely demon and all.

But this year is different.

This year, he and Aziraphale are a Thing. An Item. A Couple. All those disgustingly cloying Human terms, most of which didn’t really apply when a) you were immortal beings just looking like you belonged on two legs with the accompanying parts, b) you had spent more time with your ‘other half’ (oh, gross) than any two Humans could have done, even if they’d been literally stuck in the same room since birth, c) didn’t need reproductive organs, and they were more like fashionable accessories to swap in or out and d) you weren’t a fucking soppy piece of hopeless romance-novel Hallmark-guzzling rom-com watching nose-blowing _fool_.

It was - it was beyond words. Not that he’d thought about it. It was just… him (or, sometimes. her) and his angel. His. Belonging to. Belonging _with_. Their own damn side, their own damn lives, their own… little… corner of reality. 

But now it wasn’t hidden. The various Powers That Be knew full well that they were… well. Rebels. But rebels together. Partners in crime, and the crime was of l--- of lo--- it was just wanting to continue doing what they did. And maybe do more.

Which had started off with… well, technically it had started off with facing down Satan himself with an eleven-year-old boy, progressed to swapping essences, bodies… whatever… a night at his, all that malarkey, and then dinner.

And then… well.

More dinners. Hands touching. Soft, soft eyes and pursed lips and endearments dripping like honey down a spoon. Arms linked. A warm glow that had been so overpowering as to render Crowley incapable of responding when some comment was made by a well-wisher, and then the flooring realisation that the angel had just… _agreed_ that he - they - that…

He hadn’t even admitted they were _friends_ , not even in private, where Crowley had been willing to cry his heart out and admit he was his **best** ~~read: only~~ friend. And now he’d happily told this random Human that yes, they were together, and having a lovely day, and gosh wasn’t it balmly for this time of year and--

He’d been unable to speak the whole rest of the walk to the car, and he’d avoided the angel’s eyes, trying to duck out of discussing the very thing he’d been grasping for, for so very long. To be so close and then to possibly… if he’d misunderstood…

“You… did I offend you, my dear?”

“Mnnnf? Nah.”

“I - I had hoped perhaps it would come up naturally in conversation, but I… well, I didn’t want to… push.”

Bugger. They _were_ doing it, weren’t they?

A few awkward lunges with the verbal rapier, some near-misses, some bad steps… and Crowley had lost his mind and kissed him. And kissed him. And… well, the kisses had gone on for some time. Between hands on cheeks and confessions of… l… of lo… of… _you know_.

And things had developed. Or, rather, been added. Fundamentally they were still the same, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t, and not just because of the frequently mind-blowing sexual escapades. (He had always known the angel would turn out to be as kinky as the Victorians, if he ever let that repression slip. And some of his proclivities had startled even a demon.) Sure, it was nice. Really nice. To do all the licking, biting, stroking, and grinding. To feel hands all over him, hands which had only the purpose of finding mutual pleasure and enjoyment. Hands which cared, which wanted him… happy. Yeah.

It was pretty good.

But that wasn’t the biggest thing, not by far. It was the unexpected consequence of everything else suddenly meaning… more. Or, being acknowledged. Little acts or gifts that had meant… a lot… but which had almost been golden votives thrown over the cliff, or into the lake. Gemstones ground to powder. The intent there, but the recipient… well, no way to judge if it had really worked. 

But now, it was like giving those same things and seeing them worn with pride and gratitude. The angel draped and adorned in every moment, every word, every little gift or act of kindn--- of… stuff. 

It was the way it was real, now, and not just him hoping he understood. Pining, even when in his company. Wanting to know his intentions were both understood, and accepted. Reciprocated, even.

And now they were.

And now he could fetch him chocolates and be kissed on the cheek and scoff and fluster but do it again next week anyway.

Now he could sprawl over his couch and feel hands run through his hair as the angel walked past. 

Now he could take him out for dinner and smugly think: yeah, that’s right, you look but you can’t touch. This one is mine. Hands off, Human. My angel. Mine. And I want you all to know. And _he does too_.

So he shouldn’t, really. He shouldn’t do anything special on this day, because… Human. Saints. And… also kind of a muddy, murky ethical muddle considering his previous employ. And because he didn’t need a special day to do it. And because it really was mass-marketed. And - and - he isn’t soppy. He isn’t. Not like that.

(Except he bloody well is and he knows it, even as he sits, holding the little box, wondering how he can play this as suave and disaffected and not like he feels like his heart is in his mouth in case he misjudged or Aziraphale is offended or feels bad about not reciprocating and should he have got him a card, too? Or a giant teddy… no. There’s no place in the angel’s life for something like that. And he’d gotten him the ‘romantic’ chocolates early with a ‘it’s all they had out’ lie and…)

Aziraphale is equally flustered. And he’s holding a small thing barely concealed in one hand. (He thinks he’s a better magician than he is. And Crowley can’t help but love _that_ , too.)

“I thought - well I know it’s a little foolish, but - well - you… I wanted to… celebrate and if you think I am a ridiculous old bird then--”

Crowley shoves his own gift box forwards, avoiding his eyes, embarrassed beyond all reason. With an equally embarrassed angel.

Yeah. They deserve one another.

“For - for me?”

“No, for the bloody postman. **Yes** , for you.” He tries to keep the sneering to a minimum, because it’s awkwardness, not anger, but it’s difficult. 

He’s so red he is sure he can’t be distinguished from his hair, and his chest feels all grippy and bouncy at once, like someone tied him up in heavy chains and then tossed him on a bouncy castle with a drunken Glaswegian. 

Oh, bugger. They’re really - aren’t they? Not just… a Thing, but… a pair of love-struck idiots. Equally caught up in the socially engineered rituals. Courting like a bunch of hormonal young things, not… an angel and a demon from before the Fall.

Uh.

He opens up the little box, to reveal a simple, silver chain with a single charm on it. A feather. It’s…

“I just… I… liked the idea of… giving you something that meant you… if I was not around, you could… oh, dearie me, I’ve been too sentimental, haven’t I?” his angel wails.

Crowley manages to choke out: “Open. Open yours.”

Inside there’s a golden brooch. Perfectly baroque in all the angel’s preferred ways. Dark stones pavé set, and bright, red eyes. A serpent. 

He’d had the same idea.

Crowley is not expecting the effusive, teary-eyed, sniffly hug he gets as a bonus, but he should have been.

Yeah. Okay. Maybe he can adapt this tradition to work. 

Whatever. It’s not like anyone’s counting any more. And if his angel is this happy, and he’s… uh… totally just ‘okay’ with this, too? 

“Wait until you see the reservation I made for us,” Aziraphale whispers.

“Oh. Uh. So... about that…”

There’s a little squeak in his ear. “We can do **both**.”

Damn. Well, then. From the way he’s being squeezed, he didn’t do too badly of his first Valentine’s. But he’ll need to top it, next year.


End file.
